


Chicken Soup for the Chief Engineer's Soul

by AlyKat



Series: Chicken Soup for the Starfleet Officer's Soul [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Comfort Food, Comfort No Hurt, Gen, Has nothing to do with that old book series, It just sounded good., M/M, Malcolm still has his cold, Post episode: s1e13 Sleeping Dogs, Pre-Slash, Sick Character, Sick Malcolm, and Trip takes care of him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8650594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/pseuds/AlyKat
Summary: Post "Sleeping Dogs" episode fic. Malcolm is still suffering through his cold. Trip takes it upon himself to help the poor Lieutenant feel better.((Previously titled: Chicken Soup for the Armory Officer's Soul.))





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been suffering through a cold the last few days, and it's getting worse. So of course, that means I've been watching "Sleeping Dogs" cuz watching Malcolm suffer through having a cold makes me feel just a little bit better. But I still wish someone would offer me some comfort, and something tells me Malcolm didn't get much comfort when he was sick either. And thus, this story sprang fully formed from my fingers in the course of just a couple hours. It's not beta'd, and I apologize for any mistakes...or any sections that may not even make sense. Fuzzy cold brain is evil and doesn't always make as much sense as I think it does.
> 
> Also, I realized rather belatedly, that this fic would make more sense being titled "Chicken Soup for the Chief Engineer's Soul" since it's told more from Trip's POV than it is from Malcolm's. The title has thus been changed, and the sequel is now "Chicken Soup for the Armory Officer's Soul". Sorry for any confusion that change might have brought.

The observation lounge was dark and quiet when Trip slipped in. His duty shift ended an hour ago, but he wasn’t quite ready to turn in for the night. Not after everything that had happened. The class nine gas giant they’d found, the stranded Klingon cargo ship they’d stumbled upon inside the giant, nearly losing three of Enterprise’s most valuable crewmen. No. His adrenaline was still running a little too high to be able to go to sleep. 

Gamma shift had started on all the minor repairs that their ship required after nearly being crushed by the pressure of the planet. Nothing that Rostov couldn’t handle, Trip thought to himself as he stepped up to the large window and watched as the stars lazily rolled by. In the five months they’d been out in deep space, every member of his engineering team had been worth their weight in gold and then some. Even members of Lieutenant Reed’s armory crew proved that they were more than capable of pitching in with repairs and updates as needed. 

Trip’s heart did a funny little flutter at the thought of Lieutenant Reed. A flutter that Trip tried very hard to ignore; but like the cause of it, ignoring it just wasn’t an option. 

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed had started off as something of an enigma to Trip. The first time they met had been while Enterprise was still in spacedock. Reed had come barging into engineering like a little angry bulldog, demanding to know where his equipment for the armory had been put. Trip, who’d had the top half of his uniform jumpsuit tied around his waist, had found great amusement at Reed going pale when he’d finally shrugged his arms back into the sleeves, putting his commander’s pips on display. The equipment for the armory hadn’t been transported yet, and Trip had said as much. When it seemed Reed was going to put up a fuss, Trip dropped a hand to his shoulder and drawled, “Keep yer shirt on, Loo-tenant. Your equipment will be here in the mornin’.” 

It hadn’t been, of course, and for three more days the smaller Englishman had confronted him about it. And for three more days, Trip fought back a smirk as he repeated the same words as the first day they’d met. He found some twisted sense of pleasure in watching Lieutenant Reed get frustrated. The way those gunmetal grey eyes would turn icy as he glared him down, jaw twitching in effort to restrain whatever biting words the Lieutenant wanted to let loose but couldn’t. 

Even once they finally got out into space, the Lieutenant and Trip butted heads. Reed had obviously been brought up in a military family -- the first in a long line of Reed men who hadn’t joined the Royal Navy, apparently -- and had been used to having a bit of command of his own. It never failed, whenever they were alone, some kind of fight would break out. Usually over something stupid. Like power relays or rerouting power to the armory, or taking the last piece of cake chef made for dessert. Yet Trip continually found himself being drawn to the man like a moth to the flame. Purposely finding ways to annoy him, standing behind his left shoulder while on the bridge, just because he could. 

Eventually, Trip found himself just wanting to be near Reed. Wanted to break through that stoic exterior, tear down the walls that were so carefully in place around him, and find out just what kind of person Malcolm Reed was. He already knew Lieutenant Reed as a competent tactical officer, with a stiff upper lip and wouldn’t accept anything but the best from those under his command. He could be stubborn, hard-headed, impossible, brilliant, and damn stupid sometimes. Which made Trip all the more curious about what _Malcolm_  Reed was really like. 

He did finally know that Malcolm’s favorite food was pineapple, despite being allergic to it. And that Malcolm liked putting peanut butter on his pancakes -- which a lot of people found odd, but Trip kind of wanted to try it, just to see what the draw of it was. He knew Malcolm’s birthday was September second, but didn’t know how old he was, and that he apparently didn’t keep in close contact with his family. That he was quiet off duty, kept to himself a lot, had that damn quick, dry British humor when he felt relaxed enough to let it through, and he didn’t particularly care for being the center of attention. At least, not while he was on duty. He didn’t like people making a fuss about him. 

After everything that had happened earlier in their shift, though, Trip had found it very hard _not_ to fuss over him. It wouldn’t have done him any good, anyway. Malcolm probably would have looked at him like he’d lost a few bolts and avoided him for the next few days. Still, Trip had found himself far more worried about Malcolm being trapped on that Klingon ship than he had any right to be. When Jon had finally hailed them, saying they were ready to be transported off the ship, Trip had felt a rush of relief wash over him. It took everything in him not to rush down to the transporter alcove and make sure everyone -- namely Malcolm -- was okay. 

God, it terrified Trip to think about how much that little Limey bastard had gotten under his skin. So quickly, too. Despite knowing so very little about him. Oh but what he’d give to change that. 

Behind him, a sudden quiet cough and sniffle cut through the silence, startling him out of his wistful thoughts. Spinning around, Trip’s heart made a leap for his throat. Curled up on the couch was the very object of his wayward longings. Dressed down in a pair of sweats, and an oversized sweater, Malcolm looked fairly miserable as he stared up at Trip through half-opened eyes. 

“C’mmander,” Malcolm muttered, voice thick and hoarse. Phlox’s hypospray of cold medicines must have worn off. 

Turning to put his back to the window, Trip tilted his head, his arms folded over his chest. “You sound like hell, Lieutenant.” _Smooth, Trip. Real smooth. Insult the guy while he’s sick_. “Why aren’t you curled up in your quarters sleepin’ off that cold?” 

Malcolm groaned pathetically, rolled his head to the side, and pressed it into the cushion for a moment before answering. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d take a walk. This was as far as I got…” 

A frown pulled at the corners of Trip’s mouth as Malcolm’s sentence trailed off into a fierce cough. The observation lounge was no place for a sick officer. Dropping his arms to his sides, he stepped closer to the couch and reached a hand out. When Malcolm did nothing but stare at it like it was an unknown alien being, Trip sighed and waved it around impatiently. 

“C’mon. I’ll help ya back t’ your room. J’st gimme your hand.”

For a moment, Malcolm simply stared at the offered hand before visibly giving in. Defeat clear on his face, he nodded reluctantly as he allowed himself to be pulled up from the couch and held by the shoulders. Trip tried to tell himself it was just to keep Malcolm from falling down again, but the traitorous part of his brain promptly called him out on that. It wasn’t until he was under the cautious scrutiny of those grey eyes that Trip pulled away enough to let Malcolm stand on his own. 

Clearing his throat softly, he motioned for Malcolm -- _Lieutenant Reed_ , his brain supplied, _the air of military pride returned, he was Lieutenant Reed again_  -- to start out ahead of him. They walked in silence down the corridor, except for the occasional sneeze-sniffle-cough from the tactical officer, until they reached the turbolift. Only once the door had slid shut did Trip dare to speak. 

“Y’know, when I was a kid an’ sick, my mom used t’ bring me a big bowl of chicken noodle soup, an’ she’d sit with me t’ keep me company.”

Beside him, Reed sneezed into his sleeve, groaned mournfully, and mumbled something that Trip suspected sounded a lot like, “Must have been nice.” Frowning, he dug into his pockets, searching out the clean rag he’d tucked away earlier in the day. He held it out with a small smile. 

“What’d your mom do for you?” 

It was an innocent enough question, one that definitely didn’t deserve a snort of dismissal and cold side-eye stare. 

“Reed men weren’t allowed to be sick,” he mumbled, squaring his shoulders and forcing his voice to take on a decidedly different tone. “Being sick showed weakness.” 

Trip’s brow furrowed at those clearly practiced words. Not Lieutenant Reed’s words. Those had to belong to one Retired Admiral Stuart Reed, Royal Navy. Never before had Trip wanted to track someone down and give them a dressing down like none other. 

“E’erybody gets sick, Lieutenant. Even Reed men.” 

Reed snorted again and shook his head before sneezing into the rag once more. “Oh, we got sick. We just weren’t allowed to be coddled. Never make a fuss. Carry on. All that nonsense.”

The turbolift slowed to a stop on B-deck, the door wooshing open once more to let them out. Trip falling right in step alongside Reed as they made their way to the Lieutenant’s quarters, clear on the opposite side of the ship from Trip’s. Strangely though, Reed didn’t call him out on that. Instead, he continued to talk. It had to be some kind of record, Trip assumed. That, or the cold had fuzzed up Reed’s brain enough to lower his defenses. 

“Which makes me yet another blight to the family name, I s’pose. The scrawny, sickly son of Stuart Reed. Always bogged down with some ailment or another, allergic to everything.” The end of his sentence barely more than a tired sigh as he leaned against the wall next to his door and weakly pushed in the access code to enter.

When he didn’t so much as look back over his shoulder at Trip, Trip figured it’d be okay to follow him into the room. Unlike his own room which displayed several personal decorations and family photos in frames, Reed’s room was sparse, damn near empty. Depressing and clinical, actually, was more like it. The poor guy had an interior room at that, so he didn’t even have a view of the stars streaking by to make it feel less like a prison cell. 

Then again, Trip thought he’d heard once through the grapevine that Lieutenant Reed didn’t have the best track record when it came to motion sickness. So maybe it was for the best he didn’t have a room with a view like Trip did. 

Attention turned from the bare walls, back to Reed settling himself on his bunk, Trip saw only then that Reed had been wandering the ship wearing nothing on his feet but a pair of thick wool socks. Somehow, that sight was even more endearing that it probably should have been. Especially coupled with the baggy sweater that was clearly at least a size too big for him. All combined, Reed transformed back into quiet, withdrawn Malcolm. 

“Tea an’ honey.” 

The sudden words snapped Trip out of his thoughts once more, and he blinked. “I beg yer pardon?”

Malcolm reached for the box of tissues sitting on the floor and leaned back, cradling them to his chest. “I was sick once, while my father was away on maneuvers. My mother brought me hot tea with honey every hour.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Trip’s mouth as he moved for the door. He could argue and say he didn’t know what possessed him to take care of Malcolm, but it’d be a lie. If nothing else, he wanted their tactical officer to feel better again. Deeper than that, though? He wanted to take care of Malcolm. Maybe break down a few more of those carefully constructed barriers. 

Thumbing open the door, he moved to stand half out of it and looked back in at Malcolm. “One cup o’ hot tea an’ honey comin’ right up!” 

Without giving him time to react, or more specifically object, Trip scooted out the door and headed for the galley. It was late, which meant Chef had gone to bed for the night, but it was possible he’d be able to find a can or something of chicken soup to go along with the tea. It didn’t take long to find what he’d been looking for -- canned soup couldn’t hold a candle to his mom’s homemade chicken soup, but it’d have to do -- and he was soon standing outside Malcolm’s door again, a tray of warm soup and hot tea in hand. 

He feared for a moment that Malcolm had fallen asleep while he was gone. How stupid would he feel standing outside the door, only to find out the Lieutenant had managed to drift off? After an agonizing moment, though, the rough voiced permission to enter came through and Trip stepped into the room with a pleased little smile on his face. Malcolm was right where he’d left him. A small pile of tissues crumpled up on the floor. 

“‘Fraid the soup might be a bit questionable, an’ it sure ain’t gonna be as good as my mom’s, but figured comin’ from a can might be better than lettin’ the resequencer have a go at it. Sit up.”

Confusion etched itself across Malcolm’s features as he pushed himself up to sit with his back to the bulkhead. Trip settled on the edge of the bed and, carefully, set the tray down beside Malcolm’s outstretched legs. Malcolm made no attempt to accept neither the tea nor the soup. He simply stared. Quietly, pathetically, breathing through his slightly parted lips. 

“They’re gonna get cold, y’know.” Trip nudged the tray a little closer. 

He could see the exact moment Malcolm’s suspicious brain caught up and sent the klaxons screaming. Saw the way his face shut down. 

“With all due respect, C’mmander,” started Malcolm, “what do you want?”

Trip blinked. “I don’t want anythin’. What makes y’think I want somethin’?”

With an effort, Malcolm motioned to the tray and then to Trip, still perched on the edge of the bed. “No one is willing to risk getting sick just for the sake of being nice. You obviously want _something_  and bringing me soup and tea is your way of--”

“Of bein’ a decent human bein’. Y’ ever think of that?”

Malcolm scoffed, his head turned away. 

“Look,” Trip sighed, moving to stand, “I don’t care what bullshit your pop fed you ‘bout bein’ sick bein’ some kind of weakness, but it’s not. Sometimes havin’ someone risk their own well bein’ to help you feel better is some of the best medicine in the world.”

When Malcolm gave no response, no acknowledgement at all, Trip’s shoulders dropped. So much for trying to break down some walls and at least become friends with him. With another soft sigh, Trip shook his head, and made his way back to the door. Might as well leave on his own before he was kicked out. 

“C’mmander?”

The quiet, single word had Trip pausing midstep to the door. He turned, glancing back over his shoulder as Malcolm rearranged himself on the bed, pulling the tray up into his lap and reaching for the steaming mug of tea. When his eyes lifted and met Trip’s, there was a hesitance there. A vulnerability that very few others were allowed to see. That no others had seen, probably. 

“Thank you,” Malcolm all but whispered as he brought the mug up to his lips. 

Hope rekindled, Trip offered one of his easy smiles and nodded once. “Anytime, Lieutenant.” Turning fully, he shrugged, hoping it looked more nonchalant than it felt. “If y’want, I can keep ya company for a while.”

“Thank you, but, I don't want to be a bother--”

“You’re not. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

With one last calculated stare, Malcolm nodded once. That was all Trip needed to get his feet moving him back to the bed. A small victory in cracking the Malcolm Reed tactical defense facade. He could accept that. 

Settling himself against the bulkhead, with Malcolm's side flush against his own, Trip didn’t bother to ignore the way his heart fluttered and flip-flopped in his chest. Waiting until the mug had been set down, he nudged their shoulders together and smirked. 

“So you really got your ass kicked by a girl, huh?” 

Groaning, Malcolm closed his eyes, coughed, and sighed. “She was a Klingon warrior, and it never would have happened if I’d been up to full health.”

“Then I guess ya better eat up an’ get plenty of rest so you can go back t’ bein’ our great protector.”

“Are you mocking me, Mr. Tucker?”

“Would I do somethin’ like that?”

Malcolm’s huff of a half laugh made Trip smile all the more. No, it was impossible to ignore the smaller officer pressed to his side. And the silly flutter he felt inside when Malcolm laughed and shot him a fond glance was quickly becoming just a part of him.

 


End file.
